


Not This Time

by Thuri



Series: The Mind is for Seeing, the Heart is for Hearing [2]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Comics Inspired, Fix-It, M/M, Mind Control, Post-Movie, deaf!Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-13
Updated: 2012-07-13
Packaged: 2017-11-09 21:51:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thuri/pseuds/Thuri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tasha let out a soft, pained moan, as good as a full-fledged scream for her and Clint pressed his own palms ever more firmly against his ears, blunt nails digging painfully into his scalp. That <em>voice</em>...the <em>sound</em> of it...he couldn’t <em>think</em>...</p><p>“Yes, entertainment. A game, I think. Miss Rushman...I see you’re holding a gun. Naughty girl, you really shouldn’t be playing with those sorts of toys. What if you got hurt?”</p><p>Tasha moaned again, curling around herself, visibly shaking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not This Time

**Author's Note:**

> This is an attempt to marry comics and movieverse. As such, some events are based heavily on the comic and therefore carry possible inaccuracies stemming from there.
> 
> And thanks to [**isisanubis**](http://isisanubis.livejournal.com/) for the beta!!

Fury’s office never changed. Not in the ten years Clint had been having his ass hauled to it over one thing or another, not if it was on the helicarrier, the office in LA, the office in New York. And even now, on one of the rare occasions Fury had actually ended up in the field, this prefab HQ he’d taken had the same set-up, the same look.

Clint supposed it was psychologically comforting, for Fury as well as the agents he met with. A small point of familiarity, when the whole world went to shit.

Didn’t really help now.

Clint waited impatiently, watching as Fury leafed through the report in front of him, though he knew the Director had to have read it by now. He wouldn’t have hauled Clint in from the hospital if he hadn’t.

Not that Clint could see the use in a face to face meeting. He’d put everything in the report. Every stupid, ridiculous detail, every thought he’d had, every trick he’d pulled. Deep cover, deeper than he’d been in years, over six months of hard work, of living in another man’s skin, of gaining trust and making himself invaluable.

All gone to absolute shit.

Fury looked up, finally, flipping the report closed, resting his folded hands on it, his single eye searching Clint’s face as if he’d get some answer there that wasn’t already written down.

Clint stared back at him, finally raising an eyebrow.

Fury sighed visibly, his shoulders slumping slightly. He slid a pad of paper out from under the report, an antiquated legal pad like Clint hadn’t seen in years. It was practically archaic, even out here in an ancient, half-empty office building far from SHIELD headquarters.

Some people wrote faster than they typed, he supposed.

Fury pushed the pad toward him, and he glanced down, quickly. _Anything you want to add to this?_

Clint shook his head. The report was probably more complete than any other he’d ever filed. He’d spent most the last few days in the hospital writing it up, waiting for Fury to arrive, watching Tasha sleep, and pretending to be asleep himself when anyone entered the room.

Fury sighed again, taking the pad back. _Fair enough. Good job out there, Barton._

Clint snorted, raising an eyebrow again, this time causing Fury to frown, and tap his pen against the words. Fine. Maybe Fury thought so. Clint wasn’t so sure he agreed.

But he _had_ saved Tasha. He’d done that much, at least, gotten her out. Not unharmed, no, but she’d recover. He’d escaped, sent out word to SHIELD they were in the wind, snagged a car to get them across state lines, gotten Tasha to a hospital at last...and had his own injuries confirmed.

And most importantly, he’d kept his mind his own. That was worth his hearing any day.

*  *  *

Clint hated deep cover missions. Absolutely hated them. He much preferred freezing his ass off on top some abandoned building or spiky monument, staring through a scope for hours on end, waiting for the perfect shot, to wearing someone else’s skin.

Deep cover meant little contact with the outside. It meant immersing himself in someone who didn’t exist. It meant wearing someone else’s clothes, someone else’s emotions, someone else’s _life_.

It meant hiding in the most obvious, dishonest way possible and as far as he was concerned, Tasha could _have_ it. He never volunteered for deep cover and he bitched from start to finish when it got assigned.

So yeah, he figured Fury had a right to look surprised.

“Would you mind repeating that, Agent Barton?”

Clint glanced around at the other Avengers--minus Thor, who was living it up on Asgard until something more important than a briefing came along--but they were no help. Tasha’s eyebrows were trying to crawl off her forehead, though. Practically worth it just for that, but he was serious. He turned back to Fury. “I could go in, with Tasha. You said yourself you were looking for someone to infiltrate Cross’s security team...I’ve got the skill set for that, sir, and you know she and I work well together.”

“You’re both scary good at killing people, that’s for sure,” Stark observed with a bright grin.

Fury, as usual, ignored him. “We’re talking a months-long commitment here. You’d be in deep. Are you _sure_ that’s something you want?”

“Yes, sir,” Clint replied, snapping off a quick salute. And while yeah, going in without his bow--or at least without being obvious about carrying it--would suck, the idea of being someone else for a few months...that sounded incredible. The last place he wanted to be right now was his own skin.

“Noted,” Fury replied, his slight frown assuring Clint they’d be talking later. Probably about his mental fitness, as if he hadn’t heard enough about _that_ in the past few weeks to last a lifetime. “As I was saying, we’ve been watching Cross Technological Enterprises for some time. Their CEO, Darren Cross, may not match Stark’s pure destructive nature--”

“Thank you.”

“--but he _is_ talented and has a gift for hiring equally talented researchers. His communications tech is especially sophisticated and until now we’ve kept the option of contracting with him open.”

“What’s changed?” asked Rogers, frowning as he leaned forward.

“Several things,” Fury responded, as the screen behind him switched to show several personnel files, all but one with the Stark Industries logo. “Six months ago, Darren hired his older brother, William. William Cross is ex-CIA and _not_ because he wanted to spend more time with his family. He’s bad news, people. Since then we’ve received word from Miss Potts that Cross is snatching up all the ex-Stark Industries researchers he can get his hands on.

“And that she’s had to offer some pretty ridiculously lucrative packages to several current staff members to keep them from jumping ship,” Stark added, making face. “There’s loyalty for you.”

“What’s he building?” Banner asked, standing to examine the files more closely. “You wouldn’t have us in here if it were just a better cell phone than Tony’s.”

“Excuse me, there _is_ no better cell phone,” Stark interjected, lips twisting wryly. “But no, he’s not after my communications people. Near as Pepper can tell--and we all know she’s scary good, too--he’s grabbing up my old weapons rejects.”

“And _that’s_ what worries us,” Fury agreed. “CTE has never shown an interest in weapons before. Much as I hate to inflate his ego, no one has yet managed to match Stark in that department and it would take them decades to catch up to where he left off. But the very fact they’re trying is...worrisome.”

Clint frowned. Worrisome, sure, but that _still_ didn’t explain why Fury wanted to send Tasha in, why he was briefing the Avengers on the situation.

Rogers seemed to agree. “I can see that, sir, but why bring us in? Aren’t there agents more suited to this kind of work? Barring Clint and Natasha, we aren’t known for our subtlety.”

“He means this is beneath Earth’s Mightiest Heroes, and call us next time aliens are invading,” Stark supplied.

“It’s true, I wouldn’t call you in for something like this if all we had were suspicions,” Fury acknowledged, speaking to Rogers and once again ignoring Stark. “This goes beyond that. We had agents in place. Agents who reported they’d succeeded in being assigned to William Cross’s project. Agents who have since disappeared.”

“Shit,” Stark said eloquently. “Do we have any leads at all?”

“One,” Fury gestured at the screen, which was now filled with a still from grainy security footage. Clint recognized the two agents in it. Jason Travers and Aaron Reinhert. Partners, only a few steps down from himself and Nat. They’d worked together under fire for _years._ And yet, as Fury started the video, they proceeded to beat the hell out of each other, no sign of thought or recognition in the vicious snarls on their faces.

“We got this through the back channel Travers opened before it closed down for us again. It’s the last view we have of either of them, and there’s been no news since.”

Clint barely heard the words, watching sickly as Travers kicked out with one foot, leaving himself wide open on recovery--something both Clint and Tasha had tried to train out of him--and Reinhert took him down. Reinhert fell a moment later, a tranq dart in his side.

“What turned them against each other?” Tasha asked, her voice flat, as carefully blank as her face.

“We don’t know,” Fury replied simply. “But whatever it was, if it’s been weaponized...”

Stark whistled softly. “And we don’t need any outside help when it comes to turning on each other, do we?” He glanced at Clint. “No offense, Barton.”

“Thanks,” Clint replied dryly, still not certain he was glad or not that Stark was the only one who _didn’t_ avoid the topic, even if it probably meant Iron Man, at least, trusted him. He didn’t think he’d ever truly get over the horror of Loki’s control.

But of course SHIELD would be beyond paranoid about anything even remotely resembling mind control now, when Clint had come within inches of destroying the entire helicarrier and everyone on board. As it was, he’d gotten over a dozen agents killed. Including his boyfriend.

Pushing all thoughts of Phil as far away as he could, Clint straightened, waiting for a break in the talking to Rogers was giving Stark. “So when are Nat and I leaving?”

“As soon as we can get you identities that can be safely inserted,” Fury told him. “Agent Romanoff, you’ll assume the Natalie Rushman cover. Hiring Stark and Potts’s former assistant will be quite the coup for Cross. Stark, give her something to take in. Nothing serious enough to bite us in the ass, though, got it?”

“I’ve got a failed toy or two I can part with,” Stark grinned. “Permission to make sure it blows up in their faces?”

“So long as it doesn’t put our people at risk,” Rogers said firmly. “If both Clint and Natasha are in there, their safety comes first.”

“You’re so practical it causes me deep, physical pain, Cap.” Tony sighed. “Fine. My toys will be shiny but ultimately useless.”

“And that’ll make them different how?” Clint murmured in an aside to Tasha, making her grin slightly.

“Perfect.” Fury killed the screen behind him. “Barton, come with me. The rest of you, your briefing kits have everything we know about CTE and their current capabilities. Start talking this out. I want ideas on what could’ve caused those men to turn on each other.”

Clint stood and followed Fury into his familiar office as the others started to sort through the intel. “Sir?”

Fury sat down, gesturing for Clint to do the same. He folded his hands on his desk and waited until Clint had settled, looking him over carefully.

“Sir?” Clint asked again at last, raising an eyebrow.

“You’re cleared for duty, Barton,” Fury replied, still searching his face, though Clint couldn’t think what he was looking for. “Pysch’s reasonably sure whatever your lingering issues may be, they won’t interfere with your ability to function in the field. I have no reason to forbid you from volunteering for this mission and I’d be an idiot to do so. You’re well suited for it and you and Romanoff are the team I’d normally handpick to go in.”

Clint frowned. For as full of rare praise as Fury appeared to be, he sure seemed pissed off. “And that’s...bad?”

“I can’t forbid you, but I can ask you,” Fury said, his voice suddenly gentler than Clint thought he’d ever heard it. “Sit this one out.”

“With all due respect, sir, I’m not sure I can do that,” Clint replied, his frown deepening. Fury wanted to let Tasha go in there _alone_? “Agent Romanoff will need back-up on this. I can’t let her go into that mess by herself. And we both know there’s no one else she trusts enough to watch her back. Or have a chance of pulling her out when things go to hell.”

“Things of which I am well aware,” Fury said calmly. “And I’m asking you, Clint. Sit this out. Give it a few months. Take some of the vacation you’ve got saved. Phil would’ve...”

“No,” Clint interrupted, shaking his head sharply. He appreciated what Fury was trying to do, he really did, disturbing as it was to hear the man call him by his first name. But no, good intentions or not, dwelling on the aching absence of Phil Coulson was _not_ the best way to spend his time. Much better to lose himself in someone else’s mind for a few months, until he could touch that pain without breaking under the weight of it. “Sir...don’t. If it had been me, he would’ve kept working. We both know that. I’m doing the same.”

Fury sighed. “All right, Barton. I’ll sign off on it and get your orders set. Identity ready by tomorrow, and we’ll be certain you’re the only candidate they’ll care about when we’re done.”

“Thank you, sir,” Clint said, acutely aware he’d just won a huge concession from Fury, even if he wasn’t sure _why_. Why would Fury want to keep him out of this, after outright saying he and Tasha were perfect for the job? He’d never seemed that concerned over Clint’s emotional welfare before.

He puzzled over the problem as he rejoined the others. Maybe Fury felt he owed it to Phil. Maybe it was his way of expressing regret?

Pushing the mystery away, Clint instead immersed himself in the planning, in examining blueprints and schematics and watching Stark and Rogers bounce ideas and insults off each other while Banner sorted through the mess and actually produced answers. He grinned over at Tasha, already feeling the buzz of an approaching op, the high he only experienced in the field.

Fury was wrong, anyway. This was _exactly_ what he needed.

*  *  *

Clint dropped soundlessly to the ground at Tasha’s signal--a click of her tongue over the comm--nocking an arrow and scanning the room. “Anything?”

“No,” she replied shortly. “Going deeper.”

“Roger that,” he tossed back, waiting for the next security cam blackout before trotting quickly through the open space, grabbing himself some cover. Everything was going perfectly to plan...and that had him nervous.

Clint had been living in Christopher Brighton’s identity for over six months, now. He’d aced the interview and been given a position high within the security team, high enough to give him all the access he should’ve needed. Tasha had been snatched up less than a month later, as soon as Natalie Rushman had let it be known she was looking for work.

They hadn’t spoken, aside from a few nods passing each other in the office, but Clint knew even from those short exchanges that her work had been as fruitful as his own.

They had _everything_ on Darren Cross and it was worthless. Oh, his business rivals would probably kill for it--and Stark might’ve had a hissy fit, looking at the new cell phone specs--but it gave them nothing they actually needed.

Nothing at all on _William_ Cross, the one who was diverting so much of his brother’s budget and workforce. Who was working on something in his own lab. And who had left _no actual records_ beyond a line or two in the accounts and personnel, so innocuous as to mean nothing at all, and a security system that made SHIELD’s look like a joke.

So it had come to this. Infiltrating Cross’s R&D department in the middle of the night, setting loose a virus Stark and Jarvis had created into the servers and systems neither Clint nor Tasha’s expertise had been able to crack.

And then get themselves back out and to work in the morning none the worse for wear.

Utterly simple, something they’d done easily more times than Clint liked to think about, and it was all going well. He’d set up a security cam blackout to play recycled footage at regular intervals, Tasha had gotten them in, no problems from the start. Smooth as silk.

Maybe, he thought later, that was why it all went to shit. Maybe they were overconfident. Maybe this had seemed small fry after alien invasions and mad gods.

Or maybe he was just losing his edge.

Tasha was hunched over a terminal, her fingers flying as he slid through the door, turning to cover her back. “We in?”

“Almost.” Her fingers moved even faster over the keys, eyes locked on the flickering screens in front of her. “Your camera blackout holding?”

“Long as we need it,” Clint returned with a tight grin, letting her get on with her work.

A few more tense moments of quick keystrokes and she murmured something triumphant in Russian. “Got it. Stark’ll have everything in there by morning.”

“Let’s hope he remembers to share,” Clint said, relaxing just slightly. Objective achieved...now they just had to extract themselves.

Tasha snorted, softly, shutting the terminal back down, leaving it in standby mode. With luck, the small metal hacking disk she’d attached to the underside of the case would go unnoticed for a long, long time.

Clint stood back, still covering their exits. “After you.”

He followed her out and through the hallway and the office beyond. The third room, round, wide and bare, with a single camera set in the ceiling, tugged at the edge of his mind, a memory trying to surface. It seemed odd compared to the office behind it, but schematics had shown it as their fastest exit.

It wasn’t until heavy metal doors slammed down, bright lights coming up to mercilessly illuminate them, that it clicked. Travers. Reinhert. In this room.

“Shit.”

A low chuckle met his whispered curse, the sound reverberating through his brain, seeming to come from _inside_. Tasha winced, clapping her hands to her ears.

“An astute observation, Mr. Brighton,” the voice went on, setting Clint’s teeth on edge, making his skin, his _brain_ itch uncontrollably. “I don’t know why you and Miss Rushman felt the need to visit my lab so very late at night, or in such truly fetching costumes, but I would be remiss in not providing you with appropriate...entertainment.”

Tasha let out a soft, pained moan, as good as a full-fledged scream for her and Clint pressed his own palms ever more firmly against his ears, blunt nails digging painfully into his scalp. That _voice_...the _sound_ of it...he couldn’t _think_...

“Yes, entertainment. A game, I think. Miss Rushman...I see you’re holding a gun. Naughty girl, you really shouldn’t be playing with those sorts of toys. What if you got hurt?”

Tasha moaned again, curling around herself, visibly shaking.

“Throw that nasty little toy away for me, won’t you, Miss Rushman? There’s a good girl.”

Clint watched in horror as Tasha reached for her gun, movements jerky, hesitant...and then slid it across the floor, far out of her reach. His mind again flashed to the image of Travers and Reinhert fighting each other and--even as another sickening heave of sound passed through him, as the voice praised Tasha and told her to toss the second gun as well--he found it all too easy to imagine that same voice asking Travers oh so pleasantly to try and kill Reinhert.

Judging from Tasha’s behavior, from the urge Clint was feeling to throw away his _own_ weapons, even though he hadn’t been asked, Travers would’ve complied.

Fury’d been damn right to be freaked.

“That’s my good, good girl. Now, Mr. Brighton, was a bow _really_ necessary? Let’s set that and all those silly arrows aside. My game won’t need all these extras.”

It was _nothing_ like Loki. Loki’s control had been elegant, subtle and all but impossible to separate from his own thoughts. Only after had he been able to look back in horror at what he’d done. As it happened, serving Loki with his entire being had seemed nothing but reasonable and right.

This was different. A brutal, battering, punishing wave of force until Clint _felt_ a scream tear from his throat at the onslaught. And much as he fought it, his hands were moving to do as he’d been told. Obeying that voice, its directions, the horrible, invasive _sound_ of it, bouncing off the inside of his skull, vibrating through him, making his stomach churn and his head ache, like some kind of sonic attack...

Sonic weapon.

His fingers caught on his quiver, the arrowheads gleaming at him. The voice had told him to toss the bow and the arrows...it had said nothing about the heads. And what better way to battle sound than with...

Under the cover of discarding his weapons, Clint grabbed two of the heads, palming them quickly. He used the cover as the voice praised him to slip one into his vest pocket--the EMP should be enough to take out the camera, when he had a chance--and the second under his tongue as his hands came up to again cover his ears.

“So much better. Now, my friends, we can _play_. I think you’ll like my little game. Everyone else has. Miss Rushman, Mr. Brighton, would you please...”

Clint never heard the request. He jammed his tongue onto the arrowhead’s trigger and a blast of pure, shattering sonic energy drowned out everything else. The voice, his own harsh breathing, Tasha’s pathetic whimpers. Everything disappeared under the decibels ripping through his head, centered on the arrowhead beneath his tongue.

It rattled through his skull, pain blossoming in its wake. His ears rang as he _felt_ rather than heard something _tear_ deep within the canal. For a moment all he knew was agony, and yet he held his tongue down, pressing hard, forcing himself to hold on as the piercing blast rang through him. He would _not_ let his mind be taken over again. Not after the helicarrier. Not after _Phil_.

He would not kill Tasha, too.

The sound grew gradually dimmer and dimmer, as he held the trigger, clearing his head and leaving behind only blessed, _empty_ silence. At last the arrowhead clicked, spent, and he spit it into his open palm.

Just in time to see Tasha run at him, her face set in a fierce snarl, eyes devoid of recognition.

 _Shit_. __

*  *  *

Though Clint would never dream of telling her so--all evidence to the contrary, he did value his life--Tasha looked very sweet when she slept. Innocent in a way she never did awake. Not when she was herself.

Even her soft snores only contributed to the impression, all combining together to make the strong, confident, and above all _dangerous_ woman almost achingly vulnerable. That she trusted Clint to see her so was a gift he cherished.

It helped, now, he thought, watching her where she lay curled on the cheap hotel bed, her hair a splash of contrasting color across the garish comforter, her leg held unnaturally straight in its long, black cast. Even if the soft snores were inaudible to him now, he could still guard her rest. She would heal, her bones would knit back together as quickly and cleanly as they always did, and she would be whole again. He hadn’t failed her. Had saved her, even if he’d had to break her leg and give her a concussion to do it.

Neither of which he would’ve managed, he knew, had she been in her right mind at the time.

He let out a silent sigh, pushing the thoughts away. What was done was done and she’d been as grateful as he had to have been brought back to herself. She’d been released from the hospital, the doctors had cleared her to travel...there was nothing left but to wait for SHIELD’s pick-up. Fury had promised it would be soon. Soon, they could leave this cheap hotel and the botched mission behind. Soon they could go home.

Clint wouldn’t let himself think of what might happen after that. Of what good a sniper who couldn’t hear the order to shoot might be. Of what the rest of the Avengers, the super-powered superheroes might do. Might say.

Not that he’d hear it when they did, he reasoned humorlessly, turning his eyes back to the cheap TV in the room. He could tell himself he’d muted it and put the closed captioning on to avoid disturbing Tasha. He could try and pretend.

But even that wasn’t enough when the door to their room swung open. He dropped and rolled, coming up with his gun in hand, covering the entry as adrenaline shot through his system.

He lowered the weapon as Fury paused, holding his hands up, one eyebrow raised. His lips moved, no doubt telling Clint he’d knocked. Probably more than once.

Clint shrugged, getting to his feet and holstering his gun again. Yeah, he was jumpy...who could blame him? Six months undercover, mission shot to hell, down a sense...he didn’t think even Fury would blame him for that.

He’d turned, to wake Tasha, when he caught sight of another figure entering the room.

A very _familiar_ figure.

Thinner, yes, moving more cautiously, left arm hanging a bit oddly but...terribly, horribly, achingly familiar.

“ _Phil_?”

*  *  *

**Author's Note:**

> In the interest of full disclosure, no, I'm not deaf. I've done a lot of research as well as going by what I know from my own life and friends, but this is likely going to be inaccurate and not fall within the experience of deaf/hard of hearing people in real life, either due to my ignorance, to conscious choices made by setting this in a world far more technically advanced than ours, by holding to comics canon that is in itself inaccurate already, or by making decisions on what it best serves the story to dwell on.
> 
> I mean no disrespect or offense and can only beg the patience of those that know better. I hope you enjoyed!


End file.
